


Winter Solstice

by BluBerd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluBerd/pseuds/BluBerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the longest night of the year, and they're taking advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Solstice

Somehow, it seems like it would be wrong in the day. Like the sun is some sort of a peeping Tom, watching them, making it sordid. Making it more than what it is. They see each other in the day, of course, but it's not even remotely the same. There's none of this.

They don't do the morning blow job or the wake-up sex. There is no luxurious slow-fucking on weekend afternoons. It's not their thing. It's not what they do. Not something they can do.

Because they're friends. And they're still friends when the sun goes down (because that makes all the difference in the world), they're just friends that do this.

This...movement that won't stop--squirming into the empty spaces of each others' bodies--clutching everywhere-at-once hands--grinding, jerking hips--nothing staying still.

And it's good. Always good. Panting breaths and half-swallowed pleas and body parts, saliva-covered appendages and spreading and slicking, and laughter. Always laughter. Because even though they're just friends in the sunlight, they're still friends now.

Because that's the most important part.

That they can be that and still do this. But only at night. When they can see with their fingers all of the planes of muscle and razor-thin scars and coarse hair and warm (so hot) skin that just doesn't matter as much when seen though eyes. When they can hear the unmistakable sounds that just mean sex and make all of the nasty goodgoodmore noises that they can't even let themselves think about in the day. When they can let themselves be dark hair and sharp cheekbones drifting across scarred skin and protruding ribs. When it's so damn easy to just taste the sweat and the come and the desperation of every breath exhaled into the others' panting mouth and smell the warmth and how good everything is.

So good.

And it should never stop mattering so much. It should never be less than it is, just as it should never mean more than it does. Less would be sad. More would be tragic.

But now they get to indulge. It's the winter solstice: the longest night of the year. They won't be doing any sleeping.

They'll spend the night tangled in the sheets and tangled in each other and fall asleep come morning with tangled hair and tangled legs and tangled fingers and quivering muscles and spent bodies. And while they never have sex in sunlight, this is okay. Just falling asleep, boneless and tangled in the stew of their memories. Because this is who they are and not just what they do, and that they can be through all of the short daylight hours.

Before nighttime rolls around again.


End file.
